


Slavery of an Addict

by Doceo_Percepto



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pitch is creepy, but he's also a victim, but you don't have to have read the books to understand, this is a mix between book universe and movie universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 06:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18277817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: Jack is convinced that Pitch isn't all evil. He might be right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote between 2014-2016 and I realize I never posted it here. So voila.

A human eats and a human drinks. A human sleeps and a human dreams.

To cease any of these activities would be to die.  _Oh, humans_. How pure, unblemished and innocent, to have their sustenance be mere food and water, mere rest and imagination.

Pitch envied them the simplicity of their victuals. He envied also the Guardians, for the simplicity of their needs. Wonder, memory, hope, dreams… fun.

How liberating it must be, to find life and pleasure in things that brought life and pleasure to others. They could never realize just how unjust it was, to be cursed to feed purely on fear. Even if he one day stood up and resolved to be so-called 'good' – Pitch scoffed at the thought – he could not thrive in such a state. To be good would be to starve himself. To be good would be to suffer and crave and need and refrain and  _resist_.

Because fear… oh, fear was exquisite. Nothing could ever compare to fear. It came in different flavors, some sharp and sudden like spikes of freezing ice; some were slower, building, sordid and heavy like an injected drug sluggishly pumping through his veins. Some were laced with dread, others with horror, even others with that delectable tang of helplessness. Some required only the most minimal of efforts on his part…. But then, some required meticulous attention to reap… Pitch tried to remain altogether indifferent towards what sort of fear he took, but if he were honest with himself, he would admit that he preferred the sort of fear which carefully stewed for endless days and endless nights. He preferred… playing with his food, you could say. Tease with little licks of nightmares, and slowly slowly ohsoslowly build the terror until they collapsed in his hands and yielded to him completely.

Pitch sucked in a delicate breath and released it just as silently. He needed to calm down, relax, gather his thoughts together. Justify this to himself.

You see… fear differed between different humans as well. Pitch smirked. If  _he_  even counted as  _human._  Which he didn't, of course he didn't, but that didn't change anything.

The act of bringing terror was sometimes routine; the satisfaction he claimed by doing so certainly filling, but not special, not… intimate. He liked to think himself above petty human-like weaknesses such as obsessions, but nonetheless, he found himself here. Here, where he should not be, at the very lake where he should never have gone again.

Of all the people to fix on… it had to be him. The very person as ungraspable as the wind, as free as the skies. Pitch should have kept away: Jack wasn't like the other feeble humans he'd fixed on before. These other people, he could invade their nightmares until he utterly broke them, and then ended them forever. Jack Frost? He couldn't do that to Jack Frost – without fail, the other Guardians would be after him, and he had not the strength to take  _all_  of them yet.

But he'd never had to resist like this before.

Hissing from behind his clenched teeth, Pitch dragged his nails down the trunk of a tree, ignoring the bite of their splintering. How much easier it would be if his hunger didn't rely on fear. The pitiful Guardians, how  _lucky_  they were.

But no; no, Pitch had no such luck. He was starving and nothing else tasted quite right. Nothing but the fear from this one person… And as soon as Pitch had perceived Frost sleeping  _abouttime-awholeweekandnorest-damnwinterspirit_  he'd tracked him to this lake and now…. Now he held back.

Beautiful  _disgusting_  golden dream-sand spiraled over Jack's closed eyes, and a small smile had lit upon his face. Pitch sneered. So oblivious. Sleep made everyone so vulnerable.

It would be so  _easy_  to transform that dream into a nightmare.  _Everyone has betrayed you, Jack; are you even surprised?… oh, poor poor Jack, how tragic – it looks like even Jamie doesn't believe in you any more. Fitting, though, isn't it? You were never worth believing in anyway._

But no. He couldn't interfere, because he couldn't risk getting the Guardians involved. He couldn't let them know that he was now armed with new tricks, new knowledge. He definitely couldn't let them know his power was mounting – it was still much too early.

But maybe… maybe just a taste. Something small enough that Jack wouldn't even suspect him. They still thought he was victim to his own Nightmares, after all. Surely it couldn't hurt?

With measured steps, Pitch circled in closer, the shadows stretching out behind his heels.

His spidery hands extended and swirled amongst the dream-sand, but not changing it, not yet. So much temptation…

 _You don't want the Guardians involved. He'll know, you know he'll know it's you, he doesn't have nightmares, the_ Sandman _protects him, and if he becomes fearful in a dream, he will know it's you. He will tell the Guardians._

Pitch's half-lidded suddenly snapped open. _Or will he?_

Jack, for all his devotion to fun and games, had never just spilt all his secrets to someone. He wasn't a little boy that tattled to his parents; he was anything but! Three hundred years of loneliness inevitably developed independence and a reluctance to rely on others; Pitch personally could testify to that. A fragile, budding friendship with a few Guardians couldn't banish such a mindset so easily!

No, Jack wouldn't tell, not at first at least. He'd try to figure things out on his own, he'd try to fix it himself, he'd…

A twisted smile curved at Pitch's lips. His eyes fluttered shut. In that case…

No harm for a single taste.

He chuckled. Perhaps he should not envy the humans, or the Guardians. They never got to feel this pleasure now, did they? How shallow were their emotions: all but fear, that is. How limited they were, how fallible. Victims of their own weak feelings.

For Pitch, things could truly become very simple. Fear, and fear above all things, ruled.

Licking his incisors, Pitch entered the dreams of Jack Frost.


	2. Chapter 2

At first he merely observed. The naiveté of it could have made him laugh.

Burghess, in the throes of a mild snowstorm, wherein most children hid indoors until the worst of it passed;  _you'll freeze!_  their parents scolded them. Most children contented themselves with sighing over their windowpanes and watching the snow pass them by.

Not Jamie Bennett. Jamie Bennett was  _not_  going to miss Jack Frost, never! Jack Frost was all snow balls and fun times; plus, he'd never let Jamie or his friends freeze. Giggling excitedly, Jamie tugged on his winter gear and darted out the back door before his parents could spy him. He'd be back before no time, anyway.

Jack Frost, perched on the eaves of Jamie's house, grinned as he watched Jamie bounding away into the woods. He reared his fist back, took careful aim, and then – then –

WHAM, the snowball barreled into Jamie's caramel hair and sent him face-planting into the snow. Jack clutched his chest and roared with laughter,

"Haha, I got you that time, Jamie! You didn't even see it co-"

SPLAT; Jack got a face full of snowball. Still chuckling so hard that it almost hurt, Jack staggered backwards. His foot nicked the corner of the roof; with a startled yelp, he pin-wheeled his arms before plunging through the air straight into a snowdrift.

"Jack? Jack, are you okay?" Jamie came running back and leaned over the sprawled, half-buried form. "Jack! I'm sorry, I-"

A pale hand shot out of the snow and lobbed yet another snowball to whack into Jamie's forehead.

"It takes more than that to win a snowball fight against Jack Frost!" the winter spirit declared. Wind lifted him up out of the snow bank and allowed him to hover a few inches above the ground. He ruffled Jamie's hair affectionately. "It's great to see you, Jamie."

Jamie stepped away, frowning. "That wasn't funny, Jack."

"Aw, come on. You have to admit it was a little funny. Anyway, you're the one who knocked me off the roof," Jack winked.

Jamie shook his head. "I'm cold."

"Can't help you much there, buddy. But you'll warm right up if you get your friends and we build snowforts!"

"No…" Jamie stepped away, and then turned back. "I think I'm going to go inside now."

Jack's feet struck the ground and hurried after Jamie, grasping his shoulder lightly. "Hey, whoa whoa whoa – but what about all this snow? C'mon Jamie, I basically did all this for you. I thought we could hang out today!"

Jamie shrugged off his hand. "I don't really want to play anymore. It's not as fun as it used to be anyway."

Jack let out a strangled laugh that sounded more like a cough. "What are you talking about? I'm just as fun as always! I haven't changed at all – literally! Spirits don't change that much!"

Jamie opened the door to his house and gazed sullenly back at Jack. "I dunno. You just do the same thing over and over again. I'm tired of frost and snow. I'm tired of you."

The door slammed.

Jack was left, gasping and clutching at his chest. No, there was no way this could be happening, this didn't just  _happen_.

"Curious," purred an altogether too-familiar voice. "Your greatest fear has changed, Frost."

Jack whirled around and narrowed his eyes. " _Pitch_. That's it, isn't it? I'm dreaming, because Jamie would  _never_  say that."

From the shadows of the forest the shape of a man materialized, but one very strange and very twisted, his eyes silvery and skin grey, his form cloaked in the very same darkness that must fester in his heart. "Hello, Jack."

"What are you doing in my dream?" the winter spirit scowled.

"Would you rather me go elsewhere?" Pitch gestured towards the shadows, a sardonic grin on his lips. "If you so wish… I could visit Jamie, or the other children."

"Don't you dare!" Jack slashed the staff before his eyes, expecting lethal ice shards to burst forth and tear asunder Pitch's maliciously pleased expression.

Nothing happened. Jack blinked. "Um." He swung the staff again, and yet again not even a single snowflake appeared.

Pitch threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, silly Jack. Do you honestly think I'd give you the power to hurt me in a nightmare of my own creation?"

"Fine." Jack relaxed his stance. "You've got me. Now are you going to tell me why you're here? Because you don't scare me, Pitch. And nothing you do can scare me."

"So little faith," sighed Pitch.

"It's not about faith. It's about the fact we kicked your butt last year, and I know you're virtually powerless yourself. Plus, the Guardians will always protect the children. And-" with a smirk- "the children will always protect us, when we need it." Jack crossed his arms, certain he'd made his point.

Now this, this was frustrating Pitch. Clearly so much had changed in a single year, so much that he had not anticipated. How could Jack be so immune to his fears? With a start, Pitch realized that Jack responded now with reason and logic, not emotion and spitfire. He responded more like an adult, less like a child. And it was to children that Pitch had so long tailored his nightmares.

Perhaps this was the reason for Frost's resilience.

Of course, this small nightmare was intended to be nothing terror-inspiring, only a minor spring of fear. But even so, the taste had been thoroughly unsatisfying and bitter in its aftermath, due to Frost's infuriating confidence.

With a deep breath, Pitch deliberately cooled his frustration. His anger and fury could inspire terror only in those already weak-hearted. His practical, careful nature, however… the nature that allowed him to wait and plan for hundreds of years before ever showing himself… that deserved fear from any wise man.

This wasn't some cheap fix for his cravings anymore. Oh, no. If Frost were to make this a challenge, then Pitch would find in himself the patience and steadiness necessary to win.

Did not the winter spirit love games?

A languid grin spread across the Nightmare King's face. "The children will always protect you…" he echoed softly.

Jack's eyes narrowed.

"And yet," continued Pitch, circling around Jack, "time does not stop for them. Ah, yes – time wears on adults, it makes them wrinkled and grey and sad… but does it not most of all wear on children? Time is, you could say, more powerful than I – for time does what I cannot always do. Time tears away the hopes, dreams, and beliefs of children... inevitably, one by one, until…"

Pitch paused in front of Jack, his eyes reverential and pleased. "Until, at last, every snowball fight, every whimsical childhood dream, every fantasy of flying, is barely even a memory. They have greater things to concern themselves with… work, school, missing the bus, watching the latest television show…" Pitch smirked. "Not even your Jamie will be immune to this fate."

"Stop it!"

For most of his speech, Pitch had felt the touch of apprehension, of disturbed quietness. At the final words, something icy and tense clenched beneath his ribs.  _Fear_. Jack Frost's fear. Truths, indeed, were more terrifying than lies. Jack feared that Jamie would get bored of him, yes, but it wasn't a likely fear at all. It wasn't a fear he could look at and call 'fact.' But the idea of Jaime losing his beliefs and hopes and dreams... of losing his belief in Jack... that was an unchangeable end. That was undeniable.

Around them the world darkened; snow decayed into black earth, and swaying tendrils of shadow overtook the sun and sky. Pitch circled in tighter. His thrill loosed his tongue and mindlessly he continued speaking,

"Your greatest flaw, Jack Frost, is your closeness to the human world. North, Bunny, Tooth, the Sandman… they have no friends in the human world. But you…. You have Jamie. Your power rests on one whose very lifespan is a fraction of yours – forget how swiftly his childhood will go by.

"All while you gaze on, untouched by time. Forever remaining young and powerful and perfect."

And afraid. Pitch leaned in and inhaled deeply. That cold pleasure raked outward from his chest; how curious and yet fitting that the winter spirit's very fear could feel  _cold_. Not brittle or distant, but intimately cold, like a pleasant numbness in his chest and lungs. Strange, but addicting; he knew no child that had a fear comparable to this.

How could he settle with a mere taste, as he'd intended? How could he begin to terrorize the spirit and then merely stop?

But just as he agreed with himself to intensify the nightmare, Jack Frost skittered away, pupils blown wide, teeth clenched, knuckles white over his staff.

"Get away from me. Now."

And Pitch recalled why he could not press for more. Gathering himself, he chuckled.

"As you so wish…."

The dream ended; by shadow Pitch returned to his lair and brooded. He'd gotten too caught up in the moment. The best fears, after all, were nurtured and carefully fostered. The best fears were the ones he drew out over days, months, years….

He could never get the fullest satisfaction from a single nightmare - no, not even two, or three. Satiation (however brief) meant continuous stimulation of terror. It meant lurking, stalking, one single person, and provoking again and again their fear until it was just right; like chiseling at a marble block until the perfect shape emerged.

Sadly, Pitch tended to break the things he played with. No one could satiate him without them shortly afterward shattering. Maybe... a winter spirit would be different.

_Don't you like games, Jack Frost?_


	3. Chapter 3

"You've been getting in my dreams."

Jack Frost. How hideously persistent.

The short answer was, of course, yes – but the winter spirit hadn't exactly phrased it as a question. Naturally, Pitch didn't feel obliged to answer.

Of course he'd been infiltrating Frost's dreams. That taste had been nothing short of paradise; how could he sample such a thing and then never try it again? So against his better judgment… well, he went again. And again. He tried to put as much time in between as possible: a few months, the first time. The fact Jack Frost slept infrequently made his plight worse, but at least prevented him from visiting every night as he desired.

Nonetheless, the irritating winter spirit had evidently been disturbed enough to track Pitch after one of these dream escapades. In the frozen wastes of a Russian countryside, he'd caught up to the dethroned nightmare king.

Sighing, Pitch flitted into shadow and reappeared a mile or so north.

The wind swiftly bore Frost in pursuit. Regrettably, it deposited him directly in front of Pitch. Jack leaned on his staff and glared – hostile, definitely, but not poised to fight. This merited well.

"If it isn't my favorite winter spirit," Pitch said with feigned surprise.

"Trust me, I'm only here to set some rules."

"Rules? From the spirit of fun?"

"You stay out of my dreams."

Pitch shrugged lightly and brushed past Jack Frost. Too close, perhaps: he scented the fresh snap of the first winter freeze, the stark sharpness of pine against snow…. The barren blackness of night against glacial lands. It was not so much a physical scent – certainly not one humans could perceive. It was more like the scent of a soul, when it wasn't suitably drenched in fear.

Something tugged hard in Pitch's chest; abruptly, suddenly, he  _needed_  to stain that soul. He needed to feel it quivering in his hands - how tender it would be, how beautifully delicate with its alabaster surface just waiting to be carved with jagged fear, with the harsh ferocity of his need. A half step closer; Jack's fears leapt to the front of his mind; he opened his mouth –

Then snapped it shut again. Pitch gagged and swerved away from Jack to hide his face from sight. He dug his teeth into his lower lip. It had barely been an hour, and already he was craving fear again? That was much, much too quick. But - Pitch restrained a bitter laugh – whenever was he truly comfortable with his dependency upon fear?

"Are you listening?" Jack demanded at Pitch's back.

Best to pretend he was all right. Licking his bleeding lip, he forced out as smoothly as possible; "would you rather I target children again?"

"Don't give me that."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"You still give children nightmares, Pitch. So don't try to convince me you're not."

Another nonchalant shrug. "Caught red-handed, I see." Pitch blessed his ability to appear calm when everything in his head was falling apart. He kept his back to the winter spirit. Regretfully, his sense of others' souls, of their fears, was not at all tied to his vision. He may not see the spirit at the moment… but he could sense him – and that was much, much worse.

Pitch eyed the shadows. Technically, nothing kept him here. He could teleport back to his lair, and slink amongst its shadows while he regained his control.

But, cruel were the machinations of his hunger. He couldn't leave. Not yet. Perhaps he'd get a taste? Pitch closed his eyes heavily. How pitiful he'd become.

He realized too late that Jack had said something. "Mm? You must speak louder, Frost. You mumble terribly."

"What is this about? You've never given any of the other Guardians nightmares."

Pitch whirled around. "How do you know that?"

Frost's eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise. "Whoa, whoa. It was a guess."

"Of course." Pitch straightened his robe. "Of course."

"Are you… I can't believe I'm asking this, but are you okay?"

"You severed my power. You thwarted my only measly desire – to be believed in – and you turned my own Night Mares against me. How dare you ask me a question like that?" Recollecting all those things made it easier to embrace hate and push aside  _need_.

"You deserved all that, Pitch, after what you did. But… this looks like something else."

Compassion. From him? Pitch rolled his eyes and sneered. "Begone, Frost. I will not be humiliated further by you."

"I'm not leaving."

Pitch sighed. Yet again his traitorous heart wanted to reach out and seek help. He was weak, he knew he was weak; now more than ever. But surely he wasn't so weak as to ask help from his enemies? No, no – he wouldn't sink that low. He bared his soul enough that night in Antarctica, and was consequently punished for it.

_"… They'll believe in both of us."_

_"No, they'll fear both of us. And that's not what I want."_

Asking for help was out of the question. But inquiring… Pitch found himself speaking, "Your center, Jack. It's fun. Does it not fuel you? Is it not the thing upon which you depend? Even before you knew what it was, your behavior made it obvious. Everyone knew before you."

"So…?" Jack said, thrown off by the sudden line of thought.

"What is my center?" Pitch uttered daringly.

"Fear." No hesitation, no delay.

So Frost knew as well. But he had never thought about it, had he? "Correct," Pitch drawled. "It is my fuel. The thing upon which I depend. But if my behavior reflects that… I am harshly punished for it. I have no Guardians on which to rely. I am unseen by children. Why? Because my center is fear. Tell me, Jack; how easily can you change your center?"

By this time, the gist of the conversation was dawning on Jack. "I can't…" he said slowly. "I wouldn't want to, even if I could. It's me."

"Curious, how that is. The Man in the Moon put us all here. Most of us he granted such perfect centers, of fun and hope. But one, one he gave the center of fear. Generous, isn't he?"

"But it wasn't the Man in the Moon's decision," Jack realized. "Yeah, he put us here. But – well, I think fun was my center, even before I was a spirit. Now it's just an even bigger part of me."

"Hmm."

"So – before you were a spirit, you must have had already… well." Jack frowned. "You may not have been a very good person."

"Thank you," Pitch said coldly.

"Well, is it true?"

"How would I know?" snapped Pitch, turning away.

"Wait…" Jack stepped closer. Pitch tried to ignore the revisiting hunger that clawed at his chest. "You mean, you don't remember?"

"It makes no difference."

"Not even one small memory?"

"I am who I am. Unlike you, my confidence is not dependent upon my past."

"Pitch… it could be really importa-"

"I recall telling you to leave, Frost."

"Pitch!" Jack suddenly cried out. "Back at Burghess, the Tooth Fairy – she took one of your teeth, she – " He grabbed Pitch's arm in sudden joyful revelation, "-if we could find that too-"

Contact sealed the connection. If Pitch could sense fears through air, his ability was effectively doubled by physical contact.

His hand snapped out and clenched Jack's throat. Their eyes met: Pitch poured in terror in troves; all his reduced power he amassed to flow into Jack's soul, through his touch, through his eyes. In a second flat the winter spirit was trembling – Pitch briefly regretted that he could feel no panicking pulse beneath his tightening fingers, and then dismissed the thought out of sheer ecstasy. Beautiful beautiful fear snaked up Pitch's arms, oozed into his own deadblack bloodstream. The opium filled his lungs to their brim and sent his nerves afire with pleasure-

Then something cracked against his skull. White flashed across his vision. He struck the snow and curled into himself, cringing. Evidently, his power was not great enough to hold a victim in place. Jack had made his opinion about the whole thing clear by slamming his staff against Pitch's head.

Hissing out a breath, Pitch cursed himself for his own foolishness. That little trick of inspiring fear in a waking victim… it was something that required far too much energy to have tried. Once, twice, he attempted to stand, and both times collapsed back to the snow. He growled lowly. This would not have happened if were not so depleted on power! If he wasn't so infuriatingly weak.

Burning in humiliation, he resigned himself to lay in the snow, helpless and pitiful and loathsome.

Frost hadn't left yet. After that awful show, why did he linger? Let him get away from here, and forget he had ever seen Pitch like this. In that moment, the former Nightmare King hated Jack more than ever.

Then, Jack spoke. Softly. Pitch hated that too – he was supposed to be afraid! "I'll try to get that tooth from Toothiana. Maybe you aren't all fear."

The wind hurled Jack up in a flurry of snow, and off he went. Pitch swore and let the shadows take him to his lair.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack Frost was generally considered altruistic. Helpful, kind, overall determined to make right in the world. Oh sure, he did have his whole mischievous streak. There wasn't any fun in life without a bit of mischief! But the point was, he tried to keep his mischief on the side of 'fun' and not 'mean.' He wouldn't do anything he considered  _too_  bad or wrong.

Flying to Toothiana's palace to help the man that had tried to plague the world with terror and nightmares… weeelll, that didn't fall under his usual categories of 'fun' or 'good.' But to be fair, Jack wasn't helping him to do anything evil. In fact, he could be helping him to do more good. Maybe if Pitch finally learned his past, he could become a better person. Maybe it was the crucial link in his character, the thing that finally explained who he could be, not just who he was.

_"I'm scared, Jack."_

_"I know, I know…. But you're gonna be alright. You're not gonna fall in. We're gonna have a little fun instead."_

North and Bunny (and maybe Sandy and Toothiana too) might think Pitch was hopeless, but Jack knew there had to be something genuine in him. Like that time in Antarctica. His offer had been all sides messed up, but his motivation to actually make the offer hadn't seemed evil. It seemed… human, for lack of a better word. Pitch was lonely. And he'd seen a bit of himself in Jack. Both of them had known what it felt like

_To not be believed in. To long for a family._

Well, now Jack was believed in. Now he had something like a family, however haphazard the Guardians were. And Pitch, Pitch had neither. Maybe he didn't deserve either. But maybe he should at least have a second chance.

Even with the weight of these thoughts, and the lurking remnants of his last nightmare, Jack felt a laugh bubbling up. There was nothing more exhilarating than letting the wind pitch him this way and that at breakneck speeds. Below him flew past huge lakes and rivers and forests, and then soon enough, quiet towns huddled in their warm-lighted homes, and then sprawling cities blaring with sound and activity.

Jack let himself flip and turn in the air – the wind always seemed a bit more turbulent when it knew he needed cheering up. To some, this might seem like a really obnoxious and irritating way to cheer someone up. To Jack, it was perfect.

Up in the air, he felt weightless, free from worries and burdens. It was darn near impossible to be upset up here.

Eventually, night was eaten away by day, and he soared on calmer winds towards the glittering masterpiece that was Toothiana's palace. Out from the bustling palace shot a teeny blur of bright feathers, and sure enough, within seconds, Baby Tooth was flitting around Jack's head and squeaking with delight.

"Hey Baby Tooth!" he greeted, and cupped the little fairy in his hands. She chattered excitedly at him and fluffed her wings. "I missed you, little one."

She smiled up at him in her own way, and then took her place on his shoulder while he approached the center of the Palace, where Toothiana was handling business as usual. As soon as she noticed him, her eyes lit right up.

"Oh Jack, it's so good to see you again," she said warmly, "how are your teeth? Still white as freshly fallen snow?" Before he could even answer, she turned promptly to the fairies, "Montpelier, sector 4, twelve premolars, eighteen bicuspids, four incisors; Boston, sector 8, twenty-four molars, two bicuspids, eight incisors – wait! Nine incisors!" She turned back to the winter spirit. "I'm sorry, Jack. It's-"

"No, no," he waved his hands to calm her down. "No crazy snowfights today. I just wanted to ask you something."

"St. Louis, sector two, nineteen molars-"

Jack let her finish, and then pressed on, "I was wondering if I could take just one tooth drawer. I'd bring it right back."

"Your tooth drawer?"

"Someone else's."

Toothiana looked bemused. "Is Jamie okay? One of my fairies can send a drawer right over-"

"Well, actually, heh," Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I was wondering if I could take Pitch's."

" _Pitch Black_?"

"It's a little unexpected, huh?"

"Of all people…" Tooth trailed off, shaking her head.

"We defeated him. He isn't gonna come back any time soon."

"Why him?"

Jack swiped his hand through his hair. Great question, actually. "It's just, an idea I had. To show him his memories. He doesn't remember them."

Tooth's eyes widened as she understood. A few teeny fairies fluttered around her; she quickly rattled off several more cities and teeth to them. She added an extra order to one of the fairies, who fluttered off and returned carrying a single tooth drawer. Toothiana solemnly took the drawer. When she turned back to Jack, her expression was harried and concerned. She did not hand over the tooth drawer.

"You're very kind, Jack. But I can't be certain these memories will contain something Pitch doesn't already know, even if he does agree to see them. His tooth was knocked out only after he was already a spirit for a very long time."

"Can I take a drawer from when Pitch was human?"

Toothiana looked strained. "Jack, this is the only tooth we have from him. He was a spirit before we were."

Jack raised his eyebrows. Come to think of it, he did remember Pitch explaining that before, when he went on his whole crazy rant about the glory of the Dark Ages. Still, it was weird to think of a time before the Tooth Fairy and North and the other Guardians. Compared to them, Jack was young. "I'll just have to try it," Jack said determinedly.

Tooth smiled. "If anyone can show that man a bit of light, it'd be you." She handed over the tooth drawer. In response, Baby Tooth burrowed deeper into Jack's hoodie and made a plaintive chirp.

Jack flipped the drawer to see the face depicted on the side – he recalled that his own had reflected his human face. To his great disappointment, there was no recognizable difference between the visage on the tooth drawer and Pitch's own appearance. What if this didn't even work?

"Jack?"

"Thanks, Tooth." Jack swung his staff up on his right shoulder and gave her a winning grin. He didn't want her to worry any more than necessary, and he was doubly relieved that his recent onslaught of nightmares didn't yet show in his face.

"Please be careful, Jack."

"Hey, I'll be fine. I'm Jack Frost!"

"Take Baby Tooth with you."

"She'll come along." Jack affectionately petted the tiny fairy's head.

The Tooth Fairy didn't look convinced about his safety, but Jack knew it was just her motherly worry. She recited more information to her fairies, and Jack let the wind whip him away. He'd be back before she knew it. All he had to do was show Pitch these memories, and then he could bring the tooth drawer right back.

Quick as a bunny.


	5. Chapter 5

Frost was irksomely loud.

Pitch could hear him stumbling around all over the lair, calling out his name, running into walls, tripping in the dark… How clumsy for a spirit.

But it was entertaining, and bought him time to soothe an uneasiness he regretted feeling. After another five minutes, though, Jack was getting frustrated and Pitch decided it might be better to cut that game short.

"You convinced her to give up my memories, then," the former Nightmare King cooed, appearing behind the winter spirit.

"Nhg!" Jack jumped and spun around. In this darkness, Jack could not place Pitch's voice to any corporeal form. Instead, it seemed to rumble lowly from all shadows at once.

"Oh, ha-ha," he said sarcastically, eyes darting around in search of something tangible.

Pitch chuckled. An argent hand unfurled from the shadows and coiled around the drawer.

In the next moment, Jack found both Pitch's hand and the tooth drawer gone.

While Jack's breath picked up – a mild yet decadent hint of nervousness – Pitch withdrew deeper into the shadows: the drawer he caressed with his long, thin fingers. Memories. Things he'd forgotten. For so long now, he'd thought of himself only as the Boogeyman, the Nightmare King, nothing more, nothing less. To him, there was nothing before that, and nothing after. In a world of petty human transience, he was the one wrathful immortal Pitch Black.

Considering this, Pitch spoke, "And what makes you think, Frost, that I even  _want_  to remember?"

The winter spirit leaned against his shepherd's crook. "I guess every person deserves to know their past."

Pitch smirked. Jack had also forgotten his past. Learning it had given him renewed purpose. And he must have hoped the same for Pitch. The former Nightmare King didn't have any similar faith, but still…

He grazed a thumb absentmindedly over the gold lining of the drawer. For so long he'd never wondered. He'd never asked. For centuries, he'd known exactly who he was, without having to know his past. In that time, he'd experienced a fair share of self-loathing, but by now… he didn't particularly want to be anything else.

Fear was his center. What more could he want to know? And yet if he tried to remember, he couldn't even recall at what point he  _became_  the Nightmare King. The further he investigated this within himself, the deeper his brow furrowed. What was the first memory he could recall? Where  _did_  Pitch Black begin? He had simply always  _been_.

"Pitch?" Jack said tentatively.

"I  _am_  still here," Pitch drawled.

Excitement, "did you see your memories?"

"No, Frost. I hardly see the point of this exercise. Do you think I will suddenly change to support your  _Guardians_  the moment I know my past? Perhaps instead I will find some means to defeat you all…" Twirling the drawer between his fingers, Pitch smirked and stepped closer to Jack. He let his voice speak from every shadow, "I was once much more powerful. Perhaps I will find out how I became so."

"Hey." Jack narrowed his eyes. "We'll always find a way to stop you. I'm trying to help you to – y,know,  _not_  be the Nightmare King. There's gotta be something else for you."

Undeterred, Pitch continued, "Perhaps, it is as you suggested: I was not such a  _pure_  soul. That my center is fear as a result of my wicked life on earth." Pitch grinned. "And this drawer will show me how I transformed from a petty human to the Nightmare King. I can only imagine what it might teach me. How I might become more powerful than your Guardians can handle."

The shadows coiling teasingly around Jack's ankles, slithered over his skin; the winter spirit shivered. It wasn't fear, not quite… But it was something close to it, and it was enough for Pitch to draw his confidence upon. Jack didn't know if what Pitch said could be true or not, and that uncertainty was enough. For if it was true, then what would the Guardians think? First, betraying them by leaving those tunnels in the Warren undefended at Easter. Then, freely giving Pitch the means to reclaim all his power.

"Oh, this will be fun," purred Pitch. Now, with another's doubt to feed upon, he vanquished his own. He pressed his hand to the emerald diamond on the tooth drawer.

The lair around him dissolved away. Out from his fingertips spilled scenes of unearthly grandeur: the night sky afire with black swarming shadows and sharp fulgurite flashes. Pitch saw it as if he himself were there, drifting amongst the stars. It was a battle; one waged between the flitting black figures with laughing faces, and the streaks of frantic golden-white light. Everything about it was familiar, and yet foreign… if only he could place this event in his memory…

Then, roiling on the waves of space, an enormous black galleon ship emerged. The captain,  _Kozmotis Pitchiner_ , rode at its helm: broad-shouldered, he wore elegant black and gold armor with distracted indifference. His entire being concentrated wholly upon the shadows contorting around him; his gold eyes were firm and indefatigable. But not only that. They were uncorrupted. Alight with celestial flame, certain of purpose, proud and noble, but above all things,  _good_.

Pitch's heart darkened with hate. He knew. He knew this was himself, centuries in the past, at some time he no longer recalled. But Pitch loathed any creature of the light, and above all things he now loathed this past image.

The memory played on, careless of his hatred for it.

Fearlings had swarmed the galleon, and Kozmotis and his crew were fighting tooth and nail. In battle, a certain weariness could be seen weighing on the captain. Shadows under his eyes, heaviness in his movements, a deep sadness in his eyes. Shadows had long been his adversary, and he had long since tired of them. In his harried figure, Pitch could see a longing for rest, reprieve.

The scene changed.

A bedroom; still nighttime. The same wearied figure, shed of his armor and clothed in a gold-wreathed cloak, leaned over the bedside of a small raven-haired girl. All the tiredness from battle lingered; none of its ferocity did. The smile he bestowed upon her was one infinitely soft, infinitely gentle. She dreamt on peacefully, undisturbed.

"She's just as mischievous as you used to be," a stern, unseen voice said. "Wandered off again last night! Pretending to fight dream pirates, that girl…"

Kozmotis chuckled quietly and murmured, "She is her father's daughter."

There was too much affection in those words. Too much vulnerable love. Pitch was glad when the scene again shifted.

A prison, the color of lead, crammed with thousands upon thousands of shadows. At the locked door stood one single sentinel. This was a place far far away from anyone else; a place where truly only two entities existed – the sentinel, Kozmotis Pitchiner, and the shadows: the Nightmare Men, the Fearlings, the Nightmares.

These Nightmares whispered to him. Their words crawled into his ears, hissing, pleading, moaning; and it wasn't any brief torture, it wasn't any transitory event. Even as he watched, Pitch remembered. He had been trapped there as thoroughly as the prisoners he guarded – for after he'd trapped and corralled all the shadows together, he'd volunteered to watch them, forever. An eternity of that hissing and whispering, with no reprieve in which he might hear his daughter's voice again. No future to look forward to, in which he might hold her in his arms again.

In that dank emptiness, he despaired of any hope. And still, he persevered. While he endured their torture, the world was safe from it. While he suffered, the world could rejoice. This little flicker of knowledge kept him going, kept him sane. That, and the locket around his neck.

It was a silvery small thing, given to him by his daughter just before he left. She'd put a picture of herself in it. Kozmotis had never received a gift more treasured.

Day by day, week by week… month by month. Their voices wore at him tirelessly. When their chanting became too much, Kozmotis opened the locket and glimpsed the image of his daughter. By seeing her face again, even in a small, grainy photo, he was reminded of why he kept fighting.

It worked, for a time. But then the shadows snaked into his mind and read about this one strength of his. This one weakness…. And they were not above using it.

_"Daddy?"_

It was her voice. Emily Jane. The voice of his daughter, the voice that lifted his heart and –

_"Daddy? I'm trapped in here with these shadows, and I'm scared. Please open the door. Help me, daddy, please."_

Pitch watched the rest silently.

He watched calmly as his past self rushed, terror-stricken, to open the prison door. He watched calmly as a thousand shadows surged from the door and into his body. He watched calmly as his past self began to laugh, darkly, maniacally, full of twisted promise.

The memories faded away.

He was back in his lair, back with Jack Frost, back cozily surrounded by the shadows he'd so long taken to be his own.

Silence.

Long silence.

Tentatively, "Did you see your memories?"

"Yes," answered Pitch.

"What were they? What did you see?"

"Leave."

Jack laughed nervously. "C'mon, I just g-"

" _Leave me alone_!" Pitch screamed.

If Jack had been alert and cautious, he could have defended from the attack. But as it was, the mass of shadow slammed into his chest and sent him sprawling against the wall – or it would have been the wall, had he not fallen straight through it and been spat out –

Jack squinted. Spat outside. Painfully bright blue sky. "Oww.." he muttered, shielding his eyes. Pitch… had transported him through the shadows. Jack scowled. That was hardly fair. He went through all that work to collect the tooth drawer, and to give Pitch back his memories, only to be thrown out.

Jack sat up, prepared to head back to the lair and give Pitch a piece of his mind, when he was stopped dead by the six foot rabbit standing a mere foot away.

"Bunnyy," Jack let out an awkward laugh. "Funny seeing you here-"

"You and I are gonna talk, mate."


	6. Chapter 6

_"Bunnyy," Jack let out an awkward laugh. "Funny seeing you here-"_

_"You and I are gonna talk, mate."_

Bunny crossed his arms across his chest and lifted his chin to his full height. "So Tooth pays me a visit - can you believe what she tells me? That  _you_  took Pitch's memories to him. You know what I thought? You caught wind of something bad and you showed up to stop Pitch on your own. I actually believed that, too. 'Til I turn up and look at you."

"There's an explanation-"

"Don't you realize who he  _is_?" Bunny yelled, stalking closer. Before Jack knew it, Bunny had his paws clenched around Jack's collar. "Are you mad, mate? He tried to kill Sandy!"

"I'm not stupid-"

"North's gonna get a load of this, hah! Chumming up with the enemy, I don't believe it-"

Jack yanked himself out of Bunny's grip and backed up. "Would you  _listen_  to me!? I'm not trying to be his friend. I wouldn't do this if I didn't have a good reason."

"Sympathy doesn't cut it for this guy! He's the  _Boogeyman._  He belongs alone."

"But maybe he doesn't," Jack snapped back. "Maybe  _no one_  belongs alone."

"Right," Bunny said thickly, turning his chin up, "and that's why Pitch kicked ya out of his lair, yeah?"

Jack cringed. "He's – he's…"

"Look," Bunny pointed his boomerang at Jack's face, "No Guardian is gonna hang around with the likes a' him. Either stick with us, or throw your lot in with him. You can't have both."

Jack spluttered. It wouldn't seriously come to that, would it? They would never just… abandon him for choosing to help Pitch… would they? "He doesn't want to be what he is," Jack finally settled upon. "He wants to change." Maybe. That was a big unresolved 'maybe', but Bunny didn't need to know that.

"He's Pitch, mate. He doesn't have a choice."

Those words constricted Jack's heart. Wasn't that the very same argument Pitch had used? That he was destined to be what he was, that he couldn't change it? Were Guardians and spirits truly not allowed to change their natures?

"Listen up," Bunny said, his eyes narrowing sternly. "It's us or him. Make your pick."

The hair on the back of Jack's neck stood up. Something searing hot – like the whitehot tip of a blade - trickled down his spine. The sound of shifting fabric behind him, then;

"Well, you two are having fun debating about me on my doorstep." A very sinister undertone lurked beneath the playful words. For all Pitch's coldness, Jack had not heard that undertone for a long, long time.

"How about you leave Jack alone? What's he to you?" snapped the Pooka, who tensed the moment Pitch appeared.

"A fix," Pitch murmured. Jack felt fingers caress the back of his neck. Bunnymund instantly took an alert, battle-ready stance, his boomerangs out and prepared.

"Stay out of this," Jack growled to Pitch, shrugging off his touch.

"Yeh, back off," Bunny seconded. "The others are on the way, but I'd be happy to deal with ya myself."

Pitch arched a brow. "The others? Aww, little Jack, they called in the babysitters for you."

Jack pinned his eyes on Bunny. " _You told the other Guardians_?"

"It's their concern, too."

"So – so what, everyone's coming in to fight Pitch? Yeah, cuz that's fair, he's so helpless and all," Jack said sarcastically.

"We're coming to pull you outta trouble."

"What?" Jack stepped back, inadvertently getting closer to Pitch. "What makes you think I need help?"

"So controlling, aren't they?" Pitch purred. "A spirit for three hundred years, and they think you can't take care of yourself…"

"Oh, maybe because you're trying to buddy up to Pitch!" Bunny retorted.

Jack seethed. "Really? You still think that? Well, who cares if I am! At least  _he_  doesn't treat me like a little kid-"

"Maybe if you stopped acting like one-!"

"Ah, the reinforcements are here," Pitch said mildly.

Argument forgotten, Jack lifted his head and traced the sleigh approaching in the sky. Great. Any other day, he'd be thrilled to see the Guardians. But now? He really didn't need more people telling him how stupid he was when he had everything under control.

Pitch's fingers returned to the back of his neck; this time, Jack let him have the little tendril of fear he inspired. Honestly, whatever worked to keep Pitch calm so that the Guardians wouldn't declare an all-out battle.

The sleigh circled once overhead and then came crashing down with stamping, snorting Reindeer. It skidded to a stop; North leaped out, sabers at the ready, fire sparking in his eyes. Tooth fluttered behind him anxiously, and Sandy waved cheerily.

Jack frowned. "Seriously, guys?"

"I'm sorry, Jack," Tooth said, and sounded as though she deeply meant it, "after you left, I couldn't stop worrying, and… I'm really sorry; I know you mean well."

"Right to business." North pointed his sabers at Pitch and stomped closer. "You, what are you planning?"

"North," drawled Pitch. "Can't say I missed  _you_."

"To steal fun from children? Hah! You will  _never_  match us!"

Pitch quirked an eyebrow. "So presumptuous, North. All brawn and no brains, as usual."

"You lookin' for a fight?" Bunny butted in, cranking his arm back as if to throw his boomerang.

"Look, stop!" Jack slammed his staff into the ground – a wave of icy wind blasted against the assembled Guardians and sent each stumbling backward; excepting Sandy, who drifted casually back with a mildly surprised expression. "This is ridiculous! Pitch is in no shape to stand up to even one of us and –" Reeling, he stepped away from Pitch and pointed his staff at him, "and you stop doing that – that fear thing. Stop it!"

Pitch offered a dark smirk and lifted his hands up in a show of innocence.

"Jack…" Tooth said helplessly.

"No! Is this part of being a Guardian? Having every other Guardian always controlling what you do?"

"Keeping your sorry backside safe," muttered Bunny.

Sandy snagged North's sleeve; the two exchanged meaningful glances. With a sigh, North lowered his sabers. "We must trust Jack."

Bunny choked, "Is no one else remembering who this guy is?"

Sandy floated between Pitch, Jack, and the others. With a gentle smile on his face, countless golden images flashed above his head; Jack caught a sword, a star, a snowflake – but most spirited into nothingness before he could understand.

Whatever the intended message, Jack missed it entirely. Still, Sandy must have been arguing for his side, because Bunny made a low snort and turned his back. Tapping his foot twice, a bunny hole opened up and he disappeared into it.

Sandy then turned to Jack and placed a tiny hand on his shoulder. He offered a single encouraging nod, his golden eyes filled with reassurances.

"Thanks, Sandy," whispered Jack. He really, really hoped that he wasn't making a mistake.

As Sandy retreated, Jack reeled around and prodded Pitch with his staff. "Thought I said to stop the fear thing!"

Pitch didn't smirk this time; something dark was in his eyes. But he withdrew his fingers.

"Here is plan," North said, nodding convincingly, "We take Pitch to the Pole, and we discuss like true Guardians. Yes?"

"An interrogation, my favorite," Pitch uttered so lowly that only Jack caught the words. The dark undertone had entirely usurped any prior amusement in his voice. Then, with a rustle of fabric, he was gone.

No shadows, no dark laugh, no menacing anticipation in the air.

The Guardians blinked and swung their glances around the clearing. He did not reappear. There was only the dusting of snow upon the ground, and the trees quietly swaying around them. Seconds passed. He truly had left, and could now be anywhere across the globe – anywhere as long as it wasn't with the Guardians.

"Great," Jack spat. "All that for nothing."

"All the better!" North bellowed. "Now we find Bunny and tell him the problem is over."

"Yeah." Jack turned around glumly. "I'll catch up with you guys later."

"Wait, Jack!" Tooth fluttered forward and hovered at his side. Her amethyst eyes glittered with apologetic sorrow. Her hand rested on his shoulder. "We trust you, Jack. But we care about you too, and so we worry."

"I understand." Jack moved to brush off her hand, but she interjected quickly,

"His memories. Did he see them?"

Jack stilled. "Yes."

"Did he tell you what he saw?"

Jack looked away. "No. Not yet. Tooth…" he eyed the assembled Guardians, who were watching the exchange intently. Lowering his voice to a mere whisper, Jack continued, "There isn't any way that seeing his memories… I mean… he can't become more powerful this way, can he? Learn something he didn't know before?"

The answer was slow to come. Tooth seemed to carefully phrase her words before she spoke them. "Memories are only part of our past, Jack… But they're part of who we are. I think seeing them will change him, but I don't know how."

"Thanks, Tooth." Turning, Jack launched himself into the air; in a matter of seconds, he was soaring meters above the ground, closing his eyes and letting the wind card through his hair. Breath that he didn't need caught in his lungs. The worries of the clearing and of Pitch became minuscule up here.

They were not gone, though. And Jack hadn't given up.

When he felt ready, Jack descended down and landed hard beside the lake in Burghess. Sighing, he leaned against a tree trunk. "All right, Pitch."

Silence.

The weight of Pitch's presence; an ominous, disconcerting thing, was entirely… missing. The breeze was warm, gentle, the lake silent and rippling; still cold with the lingering touch of winter, despite the approach of spring.

"I'm here, Jack Frost, the only person trying to help you!" Jack said loudly, waving his hands around. "Hello? Didn't you want to talk?" Maybe he didn't. "Gonna explain what you saw in your lair?"

No response whatsoever.

"Err, terror and fear? Children's tears? Jeez, what does it take to catch your attention?"

Still nothing. Jack scowled. Great. This whole fiasco had been a complete waste of time. Maybe the Guardians were right. He should have minded his own –

A circle of shadows opened beneath him. Before Jack could finish his thought, black tendrils shot from the shadows and yanked him into darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Jack opened his eyes and recoiled at what he saw.

He was hovering in the air above Burgess – or rather, a corruption of Burgess. The cozy country town had been transformed into a blackened soot-coughing city, with Jack's favorite lake choked by debris and clouded over to a sick, greenish mud. The trees had all been felled, to fuel the expansion horizon to horizon, and tall metal buildings reared up with ugly sun glares on their dull grey faces.

The place was nearly unrecognizable – part of Jack wished it were – but despite its horrible new façade, he knew without a doubt what it was.

Even as a wandering spirit, Jack had always returned here. Always come back. And now it was ruined.

Where had he been? Dread filled him. This change couldn't have happened quickly. Had he been sleeping?

The fear of outliving Jamie, and to a greater extent, the world, had always been ever-present, but never had he expected to wake up one morning and find it all changed. It was supposed to be gradual, it was never supposed to –

How could he have slept through this? Why couldn't he remember?

Jamie, Jamie was probably…

No….

Jack curled into himself like paper in a clenched fist. His heart shuddered like it would at any moment tear in his chest, and his arms crossed themselves over his head to hide away the monstrosity. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening!

This  _couldn't_  be Burghess, but at the same time Jack knew it was, it had to be.

His eyes closed, welling with tears.

And Jamie –  _Jamie_.

The fear was always there, that he'd one day…

But, so quickly, it happened so quickly, like time itself was sprinting around a clock to conspire against him, like he couldn't blink for a second or the whole world would change -

A jolt of electricity shot down his back. He had his eyes closed now! If he blinked for just a second – he had to look, to make sure nothing was changing!

He opened his eyes, only to gape in horror.

The people down below were breathing in the fumes and choking on the sidewalks; cars were crammed bumper to bumper and the most horrid cacophony of honking and yelling rose up with the putrid smog; left and right citizens were turning on each other, fueled by the unnatural industrial heat and the crammed spaces. Children slunk along in the streets, heads bowed, beaten down by the world – their despair replaced hope and joy, and their bodies were but skeletons laboring under the windowed eyes of factories.

"Man in Moon knew this would happen," a familiar Russian accent spoke behind him.

Gasping, Jack reeled around.

The grim faces of the Guardians were amassed around him - each Guardian floating spectrally in the air. They were not as he remembered them.

North wore lines on his face that had never been there before; Tooth's feathers had long since gone dull and grey; Bunny was missing large patches of his fur. Sandy was perhaps worst off. He evinced no cheer, no hope, no dreams…. Only cold despair in his stoic expression. All stared dejectedly at Jack.

"What's happening?" Jack whispered. "How do we stop it?"

"He leaves everything to you," North handed one of his sabres to Jack; the weapon felt weighty and unnatural in his hand, but he found he could not let go of it, as if it were melded into his hand.

"He – he who? What's going on here?!" Rising panic.

"Man in Moon," North said flatly. "Now you will look over all the children of the world."

"But – but what about you guys? Won't you be helping me?"

Bunny shook his head quietly. "Mate, we're moving on. And so's MiM. Everything's up to you now."

"I-I don't understand, why would he-?"

Tooth shook her head. "We're so sorry, Jack. Man in the Moon said we couldn't tell you, but we really wish we could."

"Tell me what?"

"N-nothing, Jack. He only talks to us, and he doesn't want you knowing."

"I'm a Guardian! Why can't he tell me what his plan is? Why does everyone else know-?"

"I'm sorry, Jack. Goodbye."

The Guardians each dissolved away, and just as the crushing weight of utter isolation consumed Jack, his vision went dark.

Then, slowly, cleared.

Pitch paced before him. An unease, which Jack had never before seen in him, haunted his step. His gold eyes flicked back and forth, quick as sickness, and his fists were obsessively clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Jack held his staff closer. Indignant, he blurted, "that was a nightmare!"

"Perceptive," Pitch said thinly.

"I wasn't asleep…. You knocked me out!"

"In a way."

"Why?"

"It was not my intention."

"You're saying you did that on accident?" Jack laughed sharply. "Like I'd believe that!"

"Shut up."

Jack wrenched open his jaw to give Pitch a piece of his mind, when he remembered. He had asked to speak to Pitch. Pitch had just viewed his memories from his tooth drawer.

Jack narrowed his eyes, but held in his anger. Obviously something else was going on here. "You saw your memories?" he tried.

Pitch stopped so suddenly that Jack flinched.

"You presumed that I was evil in my life before I became the Nightmare King," Pitch said idly, as if commenting upon the weather.

Jack went very still.

"You were, interestingly, incorrect. It turns out I was something quite different than what I am now."

 _Oh_. Curiosity ignited in Jack's chest. "What were you?"

Pitch resumed pacing, eyes tormented. "As it happens, dear Jack, I was… I was a captain of a great fleet, destined to protect and preserve the sanctity of human life across all galaxies."

"Well, that's – that's awesome," Jack let a grin flicker to his face. A  _captain_ , with such a purpose! Maybe there was a bit of hope left for the Nightmare King. "Hey, I bet you kicked butt. Flying across the oceans and defeating pirates and stuff."

"Across space," Pitch corrected distractedly.

"Space?"

Pitch regarded him coolly. "The ship did not cross oceans, but rather space. Unlike you, I was never human."

Jack's eyebrows shot straight up. Holy crap. He knew Pitch was different, and Toothiana had talked about how he was older than all the other spirits…. But for him to never have been human? To travel the stars with the same ease as one might travel the ocean? What exactly  _was_ he? Jack laughed, a bit nervously. "Dang, Pitch. I had no idea."

"Neither did I," he replied, soft and introspective.

Jack took that answer positively. "Hey, this is great! Turns out there's actually a whole lot more to you than just fear – I mean, captain of some intergalactic fleet; that's pretty impressive. Not gonna get too stuffy and pretentious on us now, are ya?  _Captain Pitch,_ yikes. Better than  _Nightmare King_ , though."

Pitch sneered and turned his back to Jack. His words, when they came, were pensive, "It is truly  _adorable_  that you think I will so easily transform into an identity you Guardians find acceptable. Quite  _hopeful_. But hope has no place here, Jack. The life I lead before is something that cannot be attained again. The shadows I bear have become something inseparable from me…" Pitch's hand unfurled at his side; tendrils of shadow weaved and danced in his palm and amongst his fingers. Something in Pitch seemed to quaver. His voice got lower, quieter. "Nonetheless, I…"

Yet again, a pause, a breath held, the pin drop. "You want to change?" finished Jack, daring to hope.

Sudden, abrupt, "They are not mine."

Jack blinked. "What?" Then it hit him. The shadows, Pitch was talking about the shadows.

"I thought, all this time, that the darkness was my heart, my will, my desire. I thought that the shadows I commanded were twined with the very essence of my being, and that I could not live without them, nor them without me."

"Is… is that not true?" Jack asked, puzzled.

Pitch clenched his fist. The tendrils vanished. "I thought they were mine to command, and that their affliction, their darkness, was my own invention and possession. I was… proud to be so true to my corrupted nature."

Pitch turned; Jack glimpsed fear, raw and immense, in his eyes. "They are not mine," he confessed with nothing less than horror. "They are separate beings entirely. Through twisted tricks, they have possessed me and made me their slave. I am not what I thought I was, but rather the husk of a man controlled by monsters. All of my actions until now have not been by my will, but by theirs… yet their deception was so complete that I did not realize…"

Jack's brow furrowed. "Then… who are you?"


	8. Chapter 8

There was no feeling as terrible as this.

It was as if his very blood had turned against him, begun to poison him – or rather, had been poisoning him all along. As if his heart had eternally borne a disease that actively conspired to destroy him. As if his very flesh and bone betrayed him.

Every step he took he was overtly aware of the pulsing, living souls inhabiting his body,  _existing_  as him, worming little fingers into his brain and scratching nails under his flesh and pulling the strings to his motions. For a millennia, these shadows had been  _him_ , they were  _his._  Or so he thought, in his ignorance.

The line between he and them was beyond blurred – Pitch could not hope to guess what parts of himself were controlled by them, and which parts he himself commanded. Perhaps their will was infused in his words, perhaps their desire infiltrated his thoughts, perhaps their orders set him to pace the floor. Perhaps there was nothing left at all of  _Kozmotis Pitchiner_  – but if that were so, would he be able to fear the Nightmares inhabiting him? Would they allow him that?

Wouldn't they rather prefer a submissive, dormant host? A mere husk, a body, for them to wear?

Or perhaps it only amused them to keep some modicum of his old self around. Perhaps they liked to watch him squirm and suffer, now that his – their? – plans for conquering the Guardians were dashed.

Pitch ran a shaky hand through his hair, breath coming fast.

His hatred of the Guardians – was that, too, theirs? His love of fear… that was certainly theirs. The very thing that was so perfectly, intimately, his. Never was. The very thing he centered his life around. Never. Was. His.

 _"No!"_ he growled. Everything that he had been these past thousands of years – it couldn't have been just a puppet!

He snarled, curling his lips up, hating the caress of the shadows on his flesh. They were his, his,  _his!_ But not. He couldn't pretend. They were demons, monsters, infiltrating his flesh. He shuddered, wishing that if he simply shook himself, he could cast off the shadows like one would desire to cast off a swarm of spiders beneath their clothes.

But the shadows were not something he could shake off, or rip off with his hands – they cling to him, in him, like leeches. Shivering, Pitch scratched at his skin anyway. Disgusting.

"You said possessed…" Jack broke in carefully.

"Yes," Pitch snarled. How long the shadows had felt like home. How long he had welcomed their dark embraces.

"Possessed by the shadows? The Night Mares?"

"Nightmare Men. Night Mares. Fearlings." Pitch spat their names with disgust. "There are thousands."

"And they…"

"I don't know where they end and I begin," Pitch rattled off, more to himself than anything. "My very center, it isn't mine."

"The fear thing?" Jack said, and there was hope in there. "The desire for fear comes from them?"

Pitch whirled around, eyes afire. "Everything I believed about myself has been stolen from me! I  _wanted_  fear to be my center. I am  _nothing_ without it!"

"You said you were something before," Jack lashed back. "If – if these monsters possessing you make you this way, then – then we should get rid of them! You aren't a bad person after all!"

 _Get rid of them._ The thought was at once appealing and terrifying. To not be a slave, to not be commanded – and perhaps learn after all what he was…?

But there was also fear. Possessiveness. Pitch wrapped his arms around himself. The shadows, they had been his eternal companions. Malicious or not, they had ingrained themselves so thoroughly in him that at this point, weren't they really him? Perhaps he was overthinking this – for a millennia, he'd been the Nightmare King, why ought he stop now?

"Get rid of them?" he murmured lowly. "But Jack, then I could not taste of your fear, nor the fear of any child. Why would I ever give up such an exquisite flavor?"

Jack's face became guarded, his staff raised. "Don't even try."

"I've been feeding off you for so long now, Jack. Don't you know I have gained more strength, enough to fight you and win?"

"I don't believe you."

"Shall we put it to the test then?" Pitch taunted, stepping forward.

"Hey, hey!" Jack lifted a placating hand, frost scrawling up his staff. "Look Pitch, I'm only here to help you, but if you don't want my help, then I'm gone."

All the energy left Pitch. He turned away, shrugging. "Very well. Leave."

Jack spread his arms. "Look, you're confused about what you are? No one knows how to tackle this better than me, Pitch. For three hundred years, I had no idea who I was or what I was doing! And you think I know now?" Jack laughed. "I'm still figuring it out!"

"I always knew you and I were alike, Jack."

"Yeah, let's not go back to the Antarctica thing."

Pitch smirked, and for once the expression didn't make Jack want to run. "You must admit we would have made a  _extraordinary_  team.

"Hey, maybe we still could. For a temporary amount of time. You know, short-term. To get those nightmare out of you."

Pitch tilted his chin up. "I may know of a way."


	9. Chapter 9

He wished Jack had never brought his memories to him. It would be better, never knowing. His life had not been a happy one – he'd much rather continue on in the dark, unknowing of the tragedy that shaped his current state.

But now that he knew, now that he remembered, he could not simply let it be.

"So, how can we get rid of them?" Jack said, casual as can be, sitting up on a rock and swinging his leg lazily.

"Thousands of years ago, I crashed my galleon upon earth. There is a… weapon that fell with me. A sword fashioned of pure light that was used to defeat Fearlings during the war. I believe that obtaining that sword will purge the shadows from me."

"That's all we have to do? Get a sword?"

"Yes," Pitch lied.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Jack sprang up. "If that's as easy as it is, we can do before the night even falls. Where's the sword?"

"I will show you."

A tendril of darkness snaked out and wrapped around Jack's wrist – in another blink of a second, both individuals were yanked down into the shadows and re-emerged in another location entirely.

"Agh! Give me a little warning next time!" Jack staggered. Then, "Whoa. Where  _are_  we?"

"Where my galleon crashed all those years ago," Pitch answered simply. It was a desolate, ruined place. The soil had long ago degraded, becoming little more than grey stale dust. Nothing lived here; the trees and plants had all died, their trunks and leaves corroding and blowing away with the chilly dead wind. No animal life to be seen.

"Creepy," Jack said, shivering.

"Look." Pitch pointed to the horizon, where a huge black mass hunkered down beneath the sinking sun.

Jack squinted. "What is that?"

"My galleon." The word felt treacherous in his mouth, drawing up alien memories. Sailing across the endless, existential expanse of space. Standing at the helm, sword drawn, a legion of soldiers at his command. Battling with the Nightmare Men and Fearlings.

Pitch's throat closed up; he bowed his head and tried not to gag on the memories. Such a righteous sense of duty. Such  _certainty._ Where was that man in him now?

Pitch could not comprehend it. Kozmotis Pitchiner, proud General of the Golden Armies, seemed so far removed from Pitch, the Nightmare King. Like a different persona entirely, whose memories had been planted in the wrong body.

But he remembered his daughter. That pain cannot be anyone's but his own.

Collecting himself, Pitch drifted towards the crashed ship.

"At first I believe I could not make it here through the shadows," Pitch confessed, "and now that we are here, I do not believe we could make it by any way other than the supernatural."

"What do you mean?"

Pitch wrapped his arms about his form. "You're already familiar with the Tooth Palace, the Warren, the North Pole, and my lair…. These areas do not exist in a specific location on earth and cannot be accessed by normal means. I suspect that this crash site is comparable."

"Why?"

"Spirits have a way of preserving things that are important to them, intentionally or not. Sadly, the galleon itself will not fly any longer. If it did, I would not have remained on the earth. I suspect the Fearlings would have taken the ship to plague the universe with fear."

Jack kicked at a pile of ash. "So no interstellar victory flights, huh?"

"We, all of us, are confined here to earth." Which greatly begged the question about why the world would need the General of the Golden Armies when he could not even leave. At least a Nightmare King had some purpose on earth.

"Too bad. I would have liked to talk the Man on the Moon, at least."

Pitch hummed disinterestedly. The ship grew larger and larger on the horizon as they neared, concealing the sun behind its mass.

_What use am I without my shadows? What purpose will I have? The battles I fought - they must all have been won, or lost. Perhaps neither side survives._

His mind drifted to the family that he had once known; his wife, and his daughter Emily. They had lived thousands of years ago.

All of his life before the shadows was now ancient history, perhaps written in old untouched books and forgotten entirely. Perhaps Kozmotis Pitchiner himself was little but a legend.

The galaxies as he had known them in his youth must be entirely different. They would have become unrecognizable to him – the names of planets changed, languages morphed, cultures altered…

Pitch tilted his chin up. Perhaps it was better he could not return to the stars. They would not be as he remembered him – they would be a new world entirely. During all the years as Nightmare King, he had not ached for the stars. Nor should he let himself now that he remembered his past.

At last the ship reared high above their heads, enormous and blackened over the years.

Now…

Now it was dead. It lay on its side, hull punctured with holes, the sails half-buried in ashy dirt.

All its splendor had been ruined with the corruption of its owner. Pitch stepped close and placed a single hand against its hull. Something inside him hurt.

Jack soared up to walk along the lopsided mast. He whistled appreciatively, "this is incredible, Pitch. This whole thing was yours?"

"It was finer in its day," Pitch answered, and hoped that Jack didn't notice the longing ache in his voice. It truly had been breathtaking, all dark rich mahogany with inlaid gold patterning. The ship had borne him through countless battles, defeated its share of Fearlings. Even now, beneath all the soot and filth, Pitch glimpsed little glimmers of gold; hints at what the ship once was.

"So, where's this sword? I'm not much of a weapons person, but a sword forged from pure light sounds pretty interesting."

Pitch hummed. "The sword was kept in my quarters. I expect it has not moved." With this said, he teleported through the shadows until he stood just inside, standing on the wall since the floor was vertical.

"Now that's cheating," Jack jumped in after him, using his staff to hook on the edge of a hole and swing in.

"The sword ought to be easy to find. It was forged by Tsar Lunar's father, and th-"

"Tsar Lunar?"

Pitch cast him a wry glance. "You call him the Man in the Moon."

"His – his  _father_  forged it? I had no idea! That uh, he even had a father."

"Yes." Pitch's expression darkened as more memories were dragged to the surface. Kneeling at Tsar Lunar XI's feet as the sword was bequeathed to him. Serving under him to bring light to the stars.

And then returning, possessed by the shadows, to kill him.

Pitch shuddered. "At any rate," he tacked on hastily, "it is made of pure moonlight. The blade will be unmistakable. As soon as you glimpse it, you will know it is the correct weapon."

"Got it, special glowing sword. So, what was all that about the Man in the Moon?"

Pitch shook his head. "Now isn't story-time."

"You can't just shatter everything I thought I knew about the Man in the Moon and then not talk about it!"

"Go search," Pitch said coldly, wrapped up in his own thoughts.

Jack scowled. "Fine, fine." With a gust of freezing wind, he vanished into another corridor.

Pitch proceeded deeper on his own, the darkness and quiet welcome.

Dust and ash had long since clogged the corners of the rooms, and layered the wooden structure so that every room and every hall looked alike. Even so, and in spite of the fact the ship was turned on its side, Pitch's feet automatically led him to where he knew he needed to go.

To where he presumed the sword must be, as he had always kept it there when it was not adorning his hip.

At last he reached it – his own room on board the ship. He stilled at the threshold, hand touching the doorway.

Countless hours he'd spent in this place, poring over maps and discussing strategies for the war.

Pitch shook his head.  _How can this have been me?_ No – no fear, no darkness, no cruelty.

These memories made no sense with the memories he'd had the past few thousand years. They met like oil and water, and Pitch did not see how they once could have been one.

_The shadows have only ever been loyal to me. Perhaps I should leave now, forget all of this. You do have Jack alone now, far from where any of the Guardians could save him – perhaps you could devour his nightmares._

"Did you find it?" Jack's voice cut in harshly.

"Careful," Pitch snapped, oddly defensive of the cracked things scattered haphazardly in his old room.

"Hold on." Jack soared past him and picked up a dull, oblong item from the ash. "Is this it?"

Pitch faltered.  _I've only come to dispel of the shadows… not feed them._

_Are you sure?_

"Pitch?" Jack neared. "This is the sword, isn't it?" He held it up, and the sheath was a deep black with ornate golden designs twirling up its length.

"Yes," Pitch managed to bite out, despite the heady craving for fear rising in his chest.

_You need it to be strong, after all._

Jack began to look concerned; he held the weapon closer to his chest. "Well, then what do we do with it? We found it – are the shadows gone now?"

"I confess that I was not entirely upfront with you, Frost," Pitch said softly, becoming hungry for even just a slight taste of terror.

He had to force the words from his constricted throat – "Merely having the sword in my possession will not be sufficient to dispel the shadows." Pitch closed his eyes.  _Think of how powerful you feel in the darkness. Do you really want to be rid of that power?_

Light pierced through his lids, and his eyes opened. Jack had unsheathed the blade.

Its glow bathed his face in golden light; for the first time, Jack realized Pitch's eyes were gold, not the silver he had so often seen. It seemed to chase away the dark that not only wreathed his body, but also haunted his mind.

 _Emily Jane._  The voice of his daughter had never sounded clearer to him, and if but for just a moment, he could recall his devotion to all of the good in the world. No longer was the title Kozmotis Pitchiner one belonging to another individual – no, he saw himself now in the name.

A small breath escaped his lips.

 _I remember… everything._ His chest swelled, for a glorious few seconds he recalled what it was like to be free of shadow, to live in the light, to have family… How  _uplifting_ , how confident he felt, that this darkness was a weight he didn't need to carry, that he could cast it off like a cloak and be free.

Pitch smiled, and there was nothing sinister in it. It was true, albeit a little sad, and longing.

"Now I am certain," he said. "I want to be rid of them."

Jack grinned back. "So, what do we need to do?"

Pitch took the blade from his hands and skimmed his hands lovingly over its polished surface.

"You need not watch, if you are faint of heart," Pitch smirked.

"Uh…."

"You see, I believe I must plunge this sword into my heart."

"Wh-what?"

Pitch glanced wryly at him. "Assuming there is more to me than merely shadows and fear, as a spirit, I ought to survive the procedure."

Jack looked increasingly uneasy, and Pitch had to admit he relished the expression. Viciously, sinister hunger surged again.  _Ditch this pretense; why not forget all about what he showed you? How much easier it would be to merely attack him now, vulnerable as he is…_

"There's no other way?" Jack asked, unaware of Pitch's thoughts.

"None that I know." Pitch raised a hand to his forehead, nauseated by the chronic ache to inspire terror. Had he not just resolved to rid himself of these demons? Why then would he…. Ah.

Of course. The spirits inhabiting his body would know that their end was coming – it was in their interest to pull his strings however possible in order to avoid their potential fate.

"Frost, my body may attempt to resist this. In such a case, I expect you to help me complete the task."

"Whoa whoa whoa," Jack's unease multiplied, "I can't – I don't know if I can do that. Isn't there another way?"

"Regretfully, no," Pitch replied, and eyed the golden blade. "Due to the potential of resistance, it would be best to get this done as quickly as possible. Yes…. Right away." Pitch closed his eyes, raised the sword, holding it at arm's length so that the blade was leveled right over his heart.

_Three… two…_

His body went rigid. The blade hovered a mere centimeter from his chest. But it did not go in.

Jack took a careful step closer. "Pitch…?"

_Kill him._

He felt the shadows crawl up his spine, and then abruptly they were using his voice – the spoke through him, as him, because perhaps after thousands of years, even the Fearlings had begun to forget what they originally were, "you assume I  _want_  to dispose of this darkness? Dear, naïve Frost… the only thing I have ever desired is terror."

The sword began to turn as a wicked grin scrawled over his face. "And now, I will k-

Jack didn't give him time to finish, but wrapped his hands around Pitch's over the handle of the blade. Together, they turned into onto himself, and rammed it straight through his chest.

Jack winced and stumbled over his feet to back away, wiping his hands on his hoodie despite the lack of any blood to be seen.

For a single suspended moment, Pitch gazed down in disbelief at the weapon, hands slack.

Then he screamed – but it wasn't him, not exactly – it was not one voice, but hundreds,  _hundreds,_ shrieking in an ominous symphony that shook the very skeleton of the ship.

"Agh!" Jack clapped his hands over his ears.

The Fearlings in Pitch ripped from his body and, howling, fled – but the light could not be so easily escaped. Jack had to screw his eyes shut tight as the golden light flared up from the blade's hilt and shot in pursuit of every single last wisp of darkness: they roared and screeched as the light exploded to illuminate the entire room, corroding every shadow.

At last, there was silence.

The light dimmed, dwindled, went out.

Jack dared to open his eyes.

Pitch still stood in the center of the room, sword out of his chest and held listlessly at his side, eyes closed.

The black clothes he wore transformed before Jack's eyes, flowing into a magnificent obsidian cloak. The trimmings were lush red, and neatly stitched scarlet patterns wove over the sleeves and shoulders. Pitch seemed to grow taller, or more stately in nature, the angles of his face becoming at once sharper and kinder. His narrow frame filled out to a broad chest and almost kingly manner.

He  _breathed._  His eyes opened.

Gold. That was the color of his irises; a deep bronzish gold, clean and stern.

Fearful and handsome, yet just and benevolent. He would have seemed perfect to a fault, like a charismatic hero stepping right off the page off a story book, if not for the aura about him – the aura of one infinitely tired, frightened, haunted.

His eye sockets were dark, as if he'd not slept in a hundred years.

He met Jack's gaze steadily.

"Whoa."

"At a loss for meaningful words?" Pitch murmured tauntingly, but there was a gentle quirk at the side of his mouth.

"Oh, shush. This is… this is what you looked like before…?"

"Yes."

"You aren't the Nightmare King anymore?"

"No." Pitch held out his hand and traced his new form with his eyes. "Then again, I am not sure I am General Pitchiner, either. Not anymore."

"How does it feel?"

"Lost," Pitch said musingly. His fist clenched and unclenched. "But… Found, too." He raised his eyes. "Thank you, Jack Frost."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Jack Frost now? Ohoo, you're getting  _more_  formal. You're not gonna be a big stick in the mud like this, are you?" Jack strutted about the room and stuck out his lips in a pretentious pout, "That's General Lord High Pitchiner to you, young man! Hmm, yes sir, indeed, I commanded all the fleets of the galaxies, indeed!"

Pitch blurted out a short laugh and then instantly looked surprised at himself.

"Ooo, you actually think I'm funny, too!"

"I always thought you were  _funny_ ," Pitch retorted, "if by funny, you mean ridiculous."

"Ow." Jack held a hand dramatically over his heart.

Pitch shook his head, and his smile dwindled to something sad. "Truthfully, I don't know what I am." He waved at the ship around them. "Once, I would have traveled the stars and fought the Fearlings. Now I am grounded here on earth, and I do not even know who I am."

"Hm." Jack sat cross-legged in air. "Well, you can come with me and meet the Guardians."

"No." Pitch lifted his hand and studied his palm. "I wish to be alone."

"Oh. You're sure?"

"I need to learn anew what it is like to live without my… without the shadows." Pitch smoothed his hands down his new cloak. "Perhaps I will begin by fixing up this galleon. And… Jack?"

"Eh?"

"Truly, thank you." Pitch met his eyes. "Without you, I never would have known."

He did not know where he was going, nor even who he was.

But whatever he did, he believed now he could become someone his daughter would have been proud of.


End file.
